The People's Will

by Jasper Kent

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ he asked, only to realize there was little chance that the man understood Swedish. Even so, the pathetic figure pushed its head up, trying to speak, reaching out with its good arm. Halvard leaned closer.

  Then he felt a shove from behind. He had forgotten about Susanna and now it was too late. He fell forward and felt the wretch’s arms around him, pulling him closer. Then he felt a terrible pain in the side of his neck as the creature bit. The sound of his own scream, echoing in the sewer, filled Halvard’s ears.

  It was mid-afternoon when Mihail returned to the Novodyevichye Cemetery, a day and a half since he had followed Dmitry there. He was as prepared as he would ever be. Even in daylight it was tricky to find the sepulchre until he was almost upon it. Fortunately, he still remembered the landmarks by which he had navigated.

  The door was closed. Mihail could see no lock or handle by which he might open it, nor anything on which he could find purchase. He reached into his knapsack and brought out a crowbar, slipping its tip into the crack between door and frame. If he had not previously seen the door ajar he would not have known which side was hinged and which opened. There was no resistance to his leverage and soon the great slab of bronze had moved far enough for him to curl his fingers around it and pull it ajar. Light spilled inside, which was a good thing, but he did not want it to go too far. He wanted to talk to Dmitry – not kill him.

  The stairs he had seen before were now covered with a sheet of grubby tarpaulin held in place by stones. Evidently the tomb’s inhabitants also feared light accidentally spilling upon them. Mihail quickly moved it aside. Below, the chamber was much as he remembered. The two coffins lay parallel, pointing away from him – one open and empty, the other closed. That was to the good. If the slumbering occupant of that one coffin was Zmyeevich then it would be Mihail’s best chance to deal with him; if Dmitry, they would have an opportunity to talk. The sunlight just clipped the foot of the closed casket, but penetrated no deeper. With the sun now past its zenith the light would get no further. Mihail unpacked what he needed from his bag and went down the steps. He tentatively lifted the coffin lid.

  Inside lay Dmitry. Mihail let the wooden lid fall to the ground with a loud clatter, then sat back on the steps, safe in the sunlight, his loaded arbalyet in his hand, his two swords – of steel and wood – at his side.

  Dmitry did not move. Mihail took his sabre and poked Dmitry in the leg with it. Still there was no response, so he jabbed harder. He suspected Dmitry was only feigning sleep, but either way the vampire began to stir. Mihail raised the crossbow and aimed it, but he doubted he would need to shoot.

  ‘It’s you,’ said Dmitry once he had sat up.

  ‘It’s me,’ Mihail confirmed. He stared at Dmitry. There was only one reason he had come here – one topic that he wanted to discuss – but now he shied away from it, almost embarrassed. Of all the foulness that had ever been perpetrated by Dmitry, this seemed a matter that was above all his own private concern. And yet as he looked into his uncle’s face Mihail saw a reluctant expectation of what was to come. He could only be direct.

  ‘I saw you and Zmyeevich,’ he said, ‘saw what you were doing.’

  ‘I know.’ Dmitry’s voice expressed none of the pride that Mihail had seen in his eyes while the events were actually taking place.

  ‘Do you know what you were doing?’ Mihail asked.

  ‘Having fun,’ replied Dmitry, bitterly.

  Mihail shook his head. ‘Perhaps Zmyeevich was, but not you. Or if you were, then you’re a fool – and I don’t believe there are any fools in our family.’

  ‘What would you know?’

  ‘More importantly, what would Iuda know?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve read his journals,’ explained Mihail. ‘I’ve stolen his knowledge. And he understands more of vampires than even Zmyeevich – at least he thinks so.’

  ‘He didn’t know Zmyeevich could walk in daylight,’ scoffed Dmitry.

  ‘No, that’s true. Zmyeevich has kept things from both of you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You remember the oprichniki? At least, how your father described them.’

  ‘Of course; brutish creatures.’

  ‘Not like you, or Zmyeevich, or Kyesha, or a dozen others I’m sure you’ve met in your time. You ever wondered why?’

  ‘It’s a big world,’ said Dmitry. ‘I’ve known humans who were as base as the oprichniki.’

  ‘But they’ve not always been so. Take Pyetr, for example, their leader. According to Iuda he was a priest in his former life – an intelligent and well-read man. And as a voordalak he remained the same. Until he met Zmyeevich.’

  Mihail paused, allowing Dmitry to consider his own existence since he had formed his partnership with Zmyeevich.

  ‘Go on,’ said Dmitry.

  ‘Iuda wasn’t able to find out about all of them, but there were similar stories for many. You’re right; some of them started out as peasants – but they all ended up like that. And then, of course, Iuda was able to conduct experiments.’

  ‘He was a monster before he became a vampire.’

  Mihail could not disagree, but for once Iuda was not his primary concern. ‘How long have you known Zmyeevich?’ he asked.

  ‘Almost two decades.’

  ‘And when did you begin to exchange blood?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’ Dmitry would not look Mihail in the eye.

  ‘Do you like the taste?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Do you think it’s right?’ Mihail fired the questions off quickly now, pressing his advantage.

  ‘Right?’

  ‘Morally.’

  ‘A voordalak has no God – why should he have morals?’

  ‘What does your gut say? Does it tell you that this is what you should be doing rather than drinking down the fresh, living blood of a human?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Dmitry shouted. ‘That’s what makes it …’ His voice petered out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what makes it fun.’ Dmitry was calmer now. ‘Doing something that’s wrong – just for its own sake.’

  Mihail pressed on with his interrogation. ‘And it was soon after – after you and Zmyeevich first exchanged blood – that you started to feel … different?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dmitry gazed down sullenly, then looked directly at Mihail. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You’re an orphan, aren’t you, Dmitry – in vampire terms?’

  ‘If you mean the vampire who created me is dead – murdered – then yes.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Raisa – she was killed by Iuda.’ He spoke in a growl, suppressing a visceral anger.

  That wasn’t how Mihail had heard it. His mother had witnessed Raisa’s death, and it was the hands of Domnikiia – Mihail’s grandmother – which had forced Raisa’s head into the path of the train’s wheels. But ultimately Mihail could not disagree that Iuda was to blame for it all. For now though, it was a distraction.

  ‘Being an orphan, apparently, makes it easier,’ he said.

  ‘Easier?’ asked Dmitry.

  He was vulnerable enough now to hear the truth. ‘When you became a vampire and exchanged blood with Raisa, the two of you formed a mental bond. You knew each other’s minds.’

  ‘That’s right. That’s how a newborn vampire learns.’

  ‘And when you exchange blood again, with a different vampire, don’t you suppose that a very similar process occurs?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you do. You share a part of your mind with Zmyeevich. You could tell he was returning the other day when we spoke beneath Saint Isaac’s. How could you know that?’

  ‘I won’t deny it. We share. It’s useful. We’re partners.’ There was a reluctant pride in his voice that had not been there before.

  ‘But who has the strong
er mind, Dmitry? You or he?’

  ‘I’m not a fool.’

  ‘Pyetr was not a fool, but his mind rotted through sharing his blood with Zmyeevich. Look at all the oprichniki – mindless animals whose will was sucked out by Zmyeevich. How do you think Zmyeevich has grown to be so old and so strong? How do you think he can walk in sunlight?’ Mihail was speculating now. He saw a defiant smile forming on Dmitry’s lips, but he continued to press the point. ‘Feeding off humans is no longer enough for him; he must feed off vampires too – not their blood but their minds. All that’s left is base animals who crave flesh and do his will. I don’t know how long it will take, Dmitry, but one day, if Zmyeevich has his way, that will be you.’

  As he spoke, Mihail watched carefully, trying to gauge the reaction as Dmitry began to understand the degradation into which he was descending. But with each word Dmitry seemed to grow stronger and more confident, as if succoured by an external presence. When he spoke, he was a changed man.

  ‘And why should I care?’ he asked, his voice cold and calm. He was no longer looking at Mihail but above him, up the steps and out to the graveyard. Mihail stood and turned.

  Silhouetted in the doorway stood a familiar hunched figure; pale wrinkled skin, a white moustache, hollowed cheeks. Mihail knew just how dangerous Zmyeevich could be even in daylight, but he was now at his weakest. Mihail raised the crossbow, at the same time noticing that while he had been talking to Dmitry the sun had moved on and he himself was now in shade.

  It was too late. Dmitry’s arms clasped Mihail around the chest – pinning his hands to his sides and knocking his weapon to the floor. Had Mihail misjudged just how far Zmyeevich’s power over Dmitry had developed? Or was this simply a rational decision of Dmitry’s own free will, deciding that it was still best for him to side with his master? It made no difference to the position in which Mihail found himself.

  Dmitry dragged him backwards across the tomb; away from the light. Mihail’s heels flailed uselessly against the flagstones until eventually they came to a halt, Dmitry’s back pressed against the wall. Zmyeevich slowly descended the stairs. Before reaching the bottom he had stepped into shadow and his transformation into a younger man began. By the time he was standing between the two coffins his back was straight, his skin was taut, his moustache and hair were iron-grey. His eyes blazed.

  ‘So – the last surviving Danilov,’ he said. Then he smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Dmitry. The last living Danilov.’

  ‘Dmitry told you who I am, then,’ said Mihail.

  ‘As you’ve so ably deduced, he did not need to. I know his mind.’

  ‘You don’t rule him yet.’

  Zmyeevich remained silent for a moment, considering Mihail. Then his eyes flared and at the same moment Mihail felt Dmitry’s grip upon him tighten, squeezing a little of the breath out of him.

  ‘You see?’ said Zmyeevich. ‘Our relationship is a sound one. We need go no further.’

  ‘You won’t be able to stop yourself.’ Mihail spoke through gritted teeth, his words more for Dmitry’s benefit than Zmyeevich’s. ‘And why should you? Once you’ve used up Dmitry, there are plenty of others out there.’

  ‘And how do you know all this?’

  Mihail said nothing.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Zmyeevich continued. ‘Because you’ve read Cain’s books. Where are they?’

  ‘Somewhere safe.’

  ‘I would dearly like to see them.’

  ‘What? There are things that even the great Dracula doesn’t know?’

  Zmyeevich winced at the sound of his Romanian name. Mihail had learned it from Iuda’s notebooks.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ said Zmyeevich. ‘I have no need for Cain’s knowledge. But he has other trophies that rightfully belong to me.’

  ‘Your blood, you mean? Or Ascalon?’

  ‘You don’t have either.’

  ‘I have his books – why shouldn’t I have his other possessions?’

  ‘He’s bluffing,’ said Dmitry from behind.

  ‘I’ll trade you them for my life.’

  Zmyeevich chuckled. ‘I’m afraid my reputation means you would not trust me to keep my side of such a bargain. It’s a curse I have learned to live with.’

  ‘You’re prepared to lose Ascalon?’ asked Mihail.

  ‘If you had even touched Ascalon, I would know,’ spat Zmyeevich. He looked over Mihail’s shoulder at Dmitry. ‘I take it you know where he’s staying?’ he asked.

  ‘Zhelyabov will know – and will tell me.’

  ‘Then we shall search there, once we have dealt with him.’

  Mihail felt Dmitry’s grip on him tighten again as Zmyeevich spoke, leaving him incapable of almost anything but speech.

  ‘Dealt with me?’

  ‘Your grandfather, Aleksei Ivanovich, thwarted me in my attempts to persuade Tsar Aleksandr I to join me. His grandson will have no opportunity to do the same for Aleksandr III.’

  ‘The third? Aren’t you missing a generation?’

  ‘The reign of this generation of Romanovs will soon be coming to an end. Dmitry’s friends will see to that.’

  ‘And then nothing will stop you,’ said Mihail.

  ‘Nothing, indeed. If need be, I’ll be free to dig up the whole of Petersburg in search of Ascalon.’

  ‘There’s nothing you or anyone can do,’ added Dmitry.

  ‘I do wish Aleksei Ivanovich were alive to see this,’ Zmyeevich continued. ‘His beloved son, my closest acolyte, assisting me as I drain the life from his only surviving grandson, holding him still, pinning him so that he is exposed and defenceless, allowing me to take my pleasure, to pierce his skin and drink, oh so slowly, until the last drop of blood is drained from his body.’

  Zmyeevich opened his jaws wide, revealing his great fangs, and descended towards Mihail’s throat, his eyes still fixed on those of his victim. Mihail knew it was time to act. He used his tongue to slip the hazelnut from his cheek where it had nestled since his arrival and held it for a moment between his incisors, so that Zmyeevich could see it plainly. Then he let it fall back between his molars and bit down hard, feeling the liquid inside spill into his mouth, its foul, metallic taste washing across his tongue.

  He made sure a little of it escaped his lips, just so there could be no doubt as to what was going on, and then swallowed the rest, spitting out the crushed shell. Then he let his mind open, inviting in anyone who cared to come. He stared back at Zmyeevich victoriously. Zmyeevich’s own expression was one of confusion. He could see the blood on Mihail’s lips but would not yet understand its import, or even guess whose blood it was. He would search around for an explanation, using all his senses, and then …

  And then Mihail felt it: Zmyeevich’s own impression of puzzlement. The vampire’s mind had searched for understanding and had, inescapably, locked on Mihail’s. Mihail knew that he had a far greater feeling of Zmyeevich’s intellect than the vampire would have of his, but it was enough. Within moments, Zmyeevich understood.

  He stepped back. Dmitry’s grip on Mihail relaxed as Zmyeevich’s will receded, and then strengthened again under Dmitry’s own volition.

  ‘No,’ said Zmyeevich thoughtfully. ‘Let him go.’

  Dmitry took a moment to consider it, but obeyed. Mihail stepped away from him and sat on the side of one of the coffins. Zmyeevich eyed him, with a curl of disgust on his lip. Dmitry simply looked bewildered. Mihail himself felt nausea at the blood he had swallowed, and at the flashes of Zmyeevich’s repellent mind that flickered through his own. He tried to push them away. They were no use to him now.

  ‘Dmitry told me you were a Danilov,’ Zmyeevich said. ‘But he failed to mention that you are also a Romanov.’

  ‘A Romanov?’ Dmitry’s voice revealed that he had no idea of the fact, let alone its implications.

  Zmyeevich waved a dismissive hand at him. ‘How long has it been, I wonder, since Cain took that blood from me? Fifty, sixty years? Was it still fresh?’

  ‘It tasted as fou
l as I’d expected,’ said Mihail, making sure that Zmyeevich would perceive the laughter in his voice. ‘And it was as effective as if it had come straight from your veins.’

  ‘How are you a Romanov?’ Zmyeevich asked.

  ‘My father is Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich.’

  Zmyeevich thought for a moment. ‘So you are of Aleksandr Aleksandrovich’s generation.’

  Mihail nodded. ‘The tsarevich is my first cousin. It’s becoming quite a family tradition. My grandfather plucked Aleksandr I from your grasp, and I shall do the same with Aleksandr III. All of my generation are safe.’

  Zmyeevich roared. His arm swung across the room and his hand caught Mihail on the jaw, knocking him to the ground. He was quickly upright, squatting, rubbing his cheek. He glanced around the tomb, noting where his knapsack lay, and more importantly his crossbow.

  ‘All are safe except for you,’ sneered Dmitry.

  ‘And how would killing me help you?’

  Dmitry laughed. ‘It wouldn’t, but it would still be just. It would serve as a lesson to others. And it would be a pleasure.’

  Mihail suspected he was speaking to impress Zmyeevich, but it would not work. Zmyeevich was a long way ahead of him.

  ‘So are you going to kill me, Ţepeş? It would be so very easy. I’m your prisoner. Perhaps you’ll even allow Dmitry the honour.’

  ‘Gladly,’ said Dmitry.

  ‘No,’ said Zmyeevich curtly. ‘That would be the worst outcome of all. If he dies, with my blood in him, then he will become a vampire – one of my many offspring and sway to my will. It would be a fitting punishment, but not worth the price.’

  ‘What price?’ asked Dmitry.

  ‘Tell him, Ţepeş,’ said Mihail.

  ‘That fate can befall only one Romanov,’ Zmyeevich explained. ‘Pyotr owed me his soul, and only a single soul can redeem that debt. If it were the soul of this pathetic creature, this bastard Romanov – a man of no power or value – then I should lose my chance of ever ruling Russia. It would be a self-indulgence that would do me no benefit. What shall it profit me, to gain one soul and lose a whole nation?’

  Mihail stood up, reaching out for his knapsack as he did so. His crossbow lay on the floor at Zmyeevich’s feet. Did he dare take it, or would the voordalak’s wrath subsume his good sense, and would he claim pyrrhic vengeance? And yet Mihail did not want to leave without it. He allowed himself a momentary glimpse into the creature’s mind, and knew he would be safe, at least if he did not try to press his meagre advantage. He bent down and picked up the weapon.